The shadow of a hawk circles, but it is not a shadow, it is a memory. Circles within circles, an eye watching an eye, a reflection that is not mine. Am I the watcher, or the watched?
Carved inscriptions, forgotten tongues. Do they remember me? The wind whispers secrets only heard by those who have forgotten how to hear.
Echoes of laughter from corridors of stone, where the past and future dance an eternal tango.
In the market of dreams, I bartered for truth but was given stories instead. Stories that spoke of gods and giants, and the silent scream of the universe as it expands inwards.